


miles and miles in my bare feet

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-11-10
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: In the morning it's raining, and Eames is alone.





	

In the morning it’s raining, and Eames is alone.

He lies in the breeze through the window, just cracked so the cold autumn air flows in, only the coverlet around his waist as a buffer.

“You’re going to catch cold,” Arthur says from the doorway to the bathroom, leaning against the jamb. “Look, you’ve got goosebumps.”

Eames angles his head on the pillow so he can look Arthur up and down, take in the boxers and the bare feet. “You’re wearing my pants, Mr Arthur.”

Arthur smiles, the grey light from the window cutting across his face. “I am, Mr Eames,” he fairly purrs, slinking back towards the bed. “You were asleep. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

When they’d first started sleeping together, there at the very beginning, Eames had thought Arthur would be measured in his affections, hand out kisses and touches like rewards for good behavior. There’s been some of that, too, but only in clearly defined doses—parameters of consequence as distinct as they are challenging. The rest of the time—if Arthur isn’t sir, he’s just Arthur, comfortably affectionate, always finding excuses to touch and be touched, if work isn’t in the way. So he slides back in bed, and pushes close to Eames, curling around him until they’re pressed together along the whole lengths of their bodies, tip to toe, one hand stroking over Eames’ chest, as if he likes reminding Eames that he’s there.

“We could go out tonight, if you wanted—“ Eames stops short, arching into Arthur’s more direct touch, thumbing across his nipple until it peaks, not just from cold air. Arthur’s mouth is on his neck, hot and open, and he kisses Eames’ neck lightly in a kind of answer.

“Want to stay here,” he murmurs, into Eames’ skin. “It’s raining, don’t make me move.”

Eames wraps an arm around Arthur, stroking the skin of his back, always so smooth and lovely. He can feel the beginnings of his arousal stirring under the coverlet, but Arthur is so sweet and pliant against him, so gentle, there’s nothing really he needs but this, this slow warm build.

Arthur’s hand moves up the side of his neck, tilts Eames’ face down for a proper kiss. Arthur kisses with singularity, total focus, exhaustively intent only on the press of Eames’ mouth to his. Eames loves the way Arthur kisses, really, loves the way his mouth opens when Eames bends towards him, the way their mouths fit, the way Arthur chases him when he pulls away—though Eames does the same. Even when they’re hard, and rough, and Arthur’s teeth draw blood, he’s still kissing like he means it, like the only place in the world he wants to be is here, and it’s that Eames fell in love with first, probably. Maybe. Actually, it’s impossible to tell what Eames fell in love with first, because every time he turns around it seems like he falls in love all over again, with the nape of Arthur’s neck, with the curve of his fingers, with the bones of his feet. He licks into Arthur’s mouth, curling him as close as possible, almost on top of himself—Arthur’s long, lean body pressing up against him, the hint of hardness against Eames’ hip, the slow, delicious drag of movement. These are Eames’ happiest memories, these days with Arthur next to him. This is his life now.

Arthur shifts completely on top of him, their cocks dragging together as he pins Eames’ hands above him. “Hold on,” he practically purrs, biting Eames’ bottom lip, hard. Eames wraps his fingers around the headboard obligingly, arching forward into Arthur’s touch as Arthur bites his way down Eames’ neck, down his chest. Arthur loves leaving marks—he’s good at it, too, knows just how to bring Eames’ blood to the surface. They’re Arthur’s signature all over Eames’ body—all these dark purple marks, as distinct as the tattoo on Eames’ wrist, the one he got when he was sure they were going to be for good. Eames loves them, too, loves to touch them when he’s alone, run his fingers over his neck while he’s working. They feel like permanence, like ownership, like he finally, finally belongs.

A particularly hard bite to his hipbone brings him back to himself—Arthur is staring up at him, a smile on his face like he can read Eames’ mind. Maybe he can—“Stop thinking so hard,” he says, and licks up the underside of Eames’ cock, sucking lightly at the head.

“Yeah, all right,” Eames breathes, shaky, spreading his legs wider as Arthur moves down. He knows what’s coming, knows the way Arthur works, their bodies fitting like puzzle pieces now, after so long. Arthur moves down, licks out at his balls, before hefting Eames’ ankles, thrusting his tongue in Eames’ arse. “Fuck, darling,” Eames says, and he can feel Arthur’s mouth, smiling against him, can feel the way Arthur goes hotter, and wetter, and his fingers tighten.

“Love your taste,” Arthur murmurs, into his skin, like he says every time, just in case Eames forgets. Eames could never forget this, though, could never forget how single-minded Arthur is pressed against him, how wanting, how desperate. And he says Eames is slutty for him.

Which, well, yeah, Eames is, already begging for it, for Arthur. “Please,” he says, over and over, as Arthur’s tongue points, insistent, pressing into him, opening him up.

“Patience, baby,” Arthur murmurs, and oh, this is how it’s going to be, Arthur’s going to take care of him. That’s what baby means, that’s what it’s always meant—Arthur is going to take care of him today, and none of the rest of the world matters. This is why Eames loves the rain.

Arthur presses a finger in, crooks it, harder and faster. “Get me the lube,” he says, voice rough and wanting. “Put your hand back on the headboard when you do.”

“Yes,” Eames groans, arching his hips up, fumbling with one hand. “Fuck, yes.”

Arthur’s fingers, slick and wet, press inside him easy, no resistance. Eames always lets him in, of course he does, always wants to, wants Arthur to fit inside him, and he loves the way it makes him smile. “So good for me, aren’t you, baby? Always so ready for me, so ready for me to fill you up—“ Arthur hums, happy, like the only thing he wants to be is right here, with Eames, forever. He crooks his fingers, and Eames cries out, a sweet gasp of joy that Arthur grins to hear. “That’s right, baby, I want to hear you, want to hear you cry out for me.”

Eames obliges him. “God, please, I want you inside me, I want to feel you, fuck, fill me up—“

He’s interrupted by Arthur’s mouth, crashing down over his, licking out, hot and desperate. This is the secret, of course, that Arthur wants this as much as he does, that it makes Arthur as mind-numbingly batty to be around Eames as it does Eames to be around Arthur. Every minute, of every day—they just sit around, in their separate spaces, and want each other, coming together like a crash when they finally have the time. Eames loves it, the suspense, the anticipation, the coming together, the coming home. Arthur’s tongue in his mouth and fingers in his arse—it sends him keening, spiraling towards ecstasy with every passing second. “Please,” he says again, breathless, into Arthur’s mouth, not kissing even, any longer, just breathing against each other in the grey light.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, hoarse. “Yeah, okay,” he breathes, and slides his fingers out, shifting out of Eames’ boxers so he can press inside, skin against skin. “Fuck,” he breathes, slow and soft, his body bowing over Eames’. “Fuck, baby, you feel so good, god, always feel so good.”

Eames lips up at Arthur’s mouth, his chin, panting and breathless, full, complete. His fingers on the headboard are cramping, useless, but he doesn’t care, not when Arthur is bowing his head into Eames’ neck, licking at the sweat in his clavicle, biting at his triceps, fingers digging into Eames’ hips. Eames digs his heels into Arthur’s back, pushing him deeper, breath coming in gasps. This is the moment. This is what he lives for, these points of contact, mouth, fingers, cock. This is what he is reduced to.

In his ear he can hear Arthur groaning, whispering words of endearment, calling him a slut, a whore, his baby. They’re interchangeable for Eames, doesn’t matter what Arthur’s saying, all means the same—means Arthur loves him, means he’s Arthur’s, means Arthur’s his. He agrees to all of it, says yes, over and over again, can’t think to say anything else, his legs cramping, his fingers cramping, his abs drawing up tight as he fights to remember to breathe. “It’s okay, baby,” Arthur’s finally saying, a hand around Eames’ cock, bumping against his belly. “It’s okay. You can let go. Come on, baby, let go.”

Yeah, Eames thinks, but he can’t say it. Yeah, all right—and he’s coming, white light ripping through him, back arched into Arthur, crying garbled words that all come down to Arthur’s name, again, and again, and again. I love you, he thinks, I love you, I love you, I love you, until he feels Arthur coming too, biting down hard on Eames’ chest, leaving a mark that will rise only in a few days, blue and purple, in the shape of his teeth. Eames feels tears down his own cheeks, but he’s laughing, great gulps of laughter as he re-learns how to breathe.

“Good,” Arthur’s murmuring, curled into Eames’ chest, “so good.” He reaches up to pull Eames’ hands down, and over his back—bringing each one to his mouth, kissing the fingers as Eames starts to regain feeling in them. “So good, my good boy.”

Yes, Eames thinks. Yes, I am.

Curling Arthur closer, hands splayed on his back, Eames keeps his legs locked, Arthur softening inside him. The last thing he wants in the world is to let go of this now, to let Arthur think about getting up, or showering, or cleaning them up. This is all he wants. This is the best thing he could possibly have. This is home.

Arthur’s drooling against him in minutes, peaceful and quiet. Eames looks out towards the window as he starts to fall asleep—the rain is soft and rhythmic, a pitter-patter that doesn’t seem to be letting up any time soon. No matter, it’s Saturday. They have, miraculously, a little more time.

“Eames,” Arthur sighs, drowsy and warm. “Eames, I love you.”

Eames just smiles, and tips his head down to kiss Arthur’s hair. “I know, my darling, my sweet. I love you, too. I love you, too.” 


End file.
